


Arms of Love

by eerian_sadow



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alternate Universe, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Headcanon ahoy!, giftfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-08
Updated: 2010-06-08
Packaged: 2018-05-17 17:05:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5878732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eerian_sadow/pseuds/eerian_sadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he volunteers for an experimental upgrade program, Prowl meets a mech who changes his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arms of Love

**Author's Note:**

> a belated birthday present for [](http://laratron.livejournal.com/profile)[laratron](http://laratron.livejournal.com/). it might have gotten finished something closer to on time if these two hadn't decided to clam up for several days.

He was young the first time he met the medic—roughly two vorns old and just barely into his final upgrades. The medic was much older, as evidenced by the crosses on his shoulders and the chevron on his helm, but his plating was in immaculate repair and his movements still retained all the fluidity of youth.

He was struck by the sense of efficiency the other exuded. The medic was thorough but practical about it, examining every potential defect or irregularity to be certain the mech would not be a liability, but no lingering on the things that were of no consequence.

Prowl was unsurprised to find that he liked the efficiency, but he was surprised by the degree. Surely one meeting was insufficient to create anything more than a simple, surface lust.

“Well, everything checks out, Prowl,” the medic said softly. “You’re cleared for the project. But I have to say that I wish you would change your mind. Our last volunteer deactivated during the procedure. And the one before that is so glitched now he can’t leave his quarters.”

“I am aware of the risks,” The young mech replied. “But I believe it is my duty to do all that I can to give the Autobots a fighting chance in this war.”

The medic sighed. “Primus knows we need that. Come on; I’ll take you to Perceptor.”

He rose from the berth and fell into step behind the medic. “What is your designation?”

“What, they didn’t tell you?” the medic shook his head. “Probably didn’t want to scare you off. I’m Ratchet.”

Ratchet. He did seem to remember hearing rumors about a mech with that designation, but nothing that made much sense. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Ratchet.”

“Say that again after you’ve worked with me for a few vorns,” the red and white mech replied. “Assuming you even remember anything after the procedure.”

Ratchet’s blatant pessimism would be discouraging, if he hadn’t read the files and knew how many mechs had deactivated testing the experimental upgrades he was about to have installed. He chose not to make a hollow-sounding reply as they entered the surgical wing.

But Prowl promised himself that he would remember.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

His optics hurt when he came online, something he could only assume was caused by the upgrades. The light in the room was almost blinding when he brought them online—though logically, they would be set at the normal level—and he cried out in pain before he was truly aware of what he was doing.

“Easy, Prowl.” A gentle hand pressed him back down to the berth—when had he sat up?—and the lights above him were dimmed.

He couldn’t remember anything so relieving. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” The hand left his chest plates once he relaxed. “How are you feeling?”

“My optics hurt,” he replied. “And are apparently light sensitive now.”

“The pain will pass and we should be able to readjust your optic sensors for the sensitivity.” Now that he could focus without the blinding light, he realized that he was looking at the medic who had administered his pre-upgrade exam. “I want you to run a memory scan and tell me about any irregularities you find.”

“Yes, Ratchet,” he replied.

He was rewarded by the most brilliant smile he could remember seeing on another mech. Something in Ratchet’s posture shifted entirely, and he was certain that the medic was relieved.

Even as his new upgrades informed him that it was completely illogical, it was strangely comforting to know that this mech—a total stranger before today—had worried about him.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

They worked together off and on many times after Prowl accepted the experimental upgrades. Their associations never lasted for very long, but Ratchet always looked pleased to see him online and well and Prowl was always struck with that same, strange sense of comfort around the other mech. It was nice, he decided eventually, to feel comfortable around a mech that wasn’t his brother.

Whether Ratchet felt similarly was undetermined, but he would be content with any amount of friendship he could get.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

He was particularly surprised when, after the cleanup from a particularly gruesome battle was over, Ratchet buzzed his door. The medic looked haggard, scratched and covered with energon and carbon smudges transferred from the patients he had been working on—and nearly in recharge on his feet.

Prowl gestured him into his quarters. “How can I help you?”

The tactician knew his tone was fairly flat and sounded unconcerned, but he got a smile from Ratchet anyway. “My washracks are out, thanks to the Decepticons. I was hoping I could use yours.”

“Of course.” He wondered if his concern showed on his faceplates as he gestured toward the recharging compartment of his quarters. “Through there and to the right. There are drying cloths just inside the door.”

“Thanks, Prowl.” The medic offered him another one of those grateful smiles. “I knew I could count on you.”

Prowl pondered the implication of those words for several moments after the medic stepped into the washracks. There were any number of ways he could interpret them, from actual friendship to nothing more than one business associate asking a favor of another.

He sincerely hoped it wasn’t the latter.

Deciding not to continue down the path his thoughts had taken, the tactician moved to the energon dispenser—generally a far more luxurious officer perk than he required—and drew a cube for Ratchet. Judging by his appearance, the medic would need it as soon as he finished washing.

He sat in his desk chair afterward, waiting for the medic, his thoughts turning back toward their friendship—or however their relationship could be described—despite his best efforts. It startled him to realize how much he had invested emotionally in the other mech, based only on simple kindness and concern during their first meeting. Primus knew he needed a friend—a real friend, not just his brothers—that he could truly confide how he was feeling.

After his upgrades, he had risen through the ranks so quickly few of the other officers, and none of the enlisted mechs, would even speak to him.

“Prowl? You okay?” He had been so deep in his thoughts that he hadn’t even heard the other mech come out of the wash racks.

Immediately, Prowl felt guilty for the worry he could see layered on top of Ratchet’s exhaustion. “I’m fine. Just thinking too hard.”

“Don’t try to avoid the question,” the medic said. “You don’t frown like that just because you’re thinking. And drink your energon. You obviously need it if you bothered to get it.”

“It’s for you.” He held out the cube, unsure of how the gesture would be received.

Ratchet took the cube with a quirked optic ridge. “I hope I don’t find out that this really was for you and you gave it up because I looked tired.”

The tactician shook his head. “I refueled at the officers meeting.”

“All right.” The medic took a drink of the energon, then pinned the younger mech with a firm expression. “So, tell me what’s on your processor.”

He shook his head again. “You don’t want to know.” Perhaps, not entirely true; he didn’t want to say it. Didn’t want to give voice to his fears and inadequacies.

“Prowl, if I didn’t want to know, I wouldn’t have asked.” Quickly, Ratchet downed the cube and gave Prowl his full attention. “Whatever it is, you don’t have to carry it alone.”

 _But I am alone/_ The protest wanted to burst out of his vocalizer, but he forced it back. He _wasn’t_ alone. He had his brothers, even if they didn’t always understand, and he had Ratchet.

He had, perhaps, always had Ratchet.

The realization was like a break in a dam, and all his fears and uncertainties came pouring out in a rush. Ratchet listened and advised. And when the emotional strain became too much for the younger mech, he held Prowl as he trembled.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

The war took its toll. Populations were decimated—in some cases destroyed—and mechs that had become comrades died on the front lines daily. Anger and hate became the emotional default settings for many Autobots and depression often hung like a funeral shroud over their base.

Some days, the only light he had was Ratchet.

Once their training had been completed, Smokescreen and Bluestreak had advanced quickly through the ranks in their chosen fields. Smokescreen didn’t have Prowl’s experimental tactics system—even with his successful implementation, it was scrapped as a failed project—but he had a knack for diversionary tactics that was second only to Prowl. Bluestreak was arguably the best sniper in the army, even if he would rather negotiate than fight.

Neither of his brothers were stationed with Prowl anymore.

Despite his own problems and stressors, Ratchet was a quiet shelter in the middle of the storm. He was always there when Prowl found himself needing to talk. The medic was always understanding when the tactician simply needed the company of another mech. He gave Prowl an anchor when he thought he might fly apart from the strain.

It was hardly surprising that he would start looking at the red and white mech as more than a friend.

“You’re thinking about something too hard again,” the medic said companionably, sliding into the seat across from Prowl.

“And you are working too hard again,” he countered, giving the other mech a small smile.

“Hazard of the profession.” The older mech gestured toward the data pad laying—forgotten—on the table in front of the tactician. “Anything I can help you out with?”

Prowl shook his head. “Analysis of the last battle. Some of the Decepticon generals are changing their strategies and it is causing us problems.”

Ratchet nodded. “It would. Don’t let yourself get too bogged down in that analysis, though. Perceptor is under the impression that I can’t understand a readout and thinks that crash you suffered on the field last cycle damaged your circuitry.”

“I don’t have time for that, Ratchet.” The younger mech frowned. “We both know I’m fine.”

The medic reached out and grabbed his hand. “You’re fine right now, but those upgrades were experimental when we installed them and you’re the only mech who’s successfully integrated them. I don’t want to lose you in the future to some flaw that we could have detected and repaired now.”

He hated when the other mech talked like that. In those moments, he never knew how much was professional care and how much was personal. Ratchet never seemed to let any mech too far under his armor.

But mechs with strictly professional relationships did not reach out for physical comfort like that.

“Very well. But you will be explaining to the Prime why the tactics division did not have that analysis in at the end of the cycle as requested.”

Something that looked very much like relief flashed across the medic’s face as Ratchet squeezed his hand a bit more tightly. “I can do that.”

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Their lives moved on as the war continued and Prowl found himself often wondering about his position in Ratchet’s life. He knew what he wanted—to move beyond simple friendship and build a real relationship with the mech—but he was uncomfortable with making a move without knowing what the medic wanted.

He didn’t want to jeopardize their friendship; that was more valuable to him than anything. And yet he had to know.

He felt all of his hopes—and quite possibly his spark—shatter when he entered the medbay and found Ratchet packing his tools into a storage case. “Ratchet? Are you leaving?”

The medic didn’t look up from his packing. “I have to.”

“Why?” The medic’s words made no logical sense, as none of the other units currently required additional medical staff.

“Because if I don’t go now, I’ll just do something that gets you hurt.” He didn’t miss the way Ratchet’s hands tightened reflexively on the edge of the storage case.

“I don’t understand.” Prowl didn’t want to bring his hopes up, but he thought he already knew what the medic meant.

“Slaggit, Prowl. This is why I had hoped you wouldn’t find out until I was already on the transport.” Finally, the older mech looked up, sorrow written clearly on his face plates. “I didn’t want to drag you down with this.”

“With what? Ratchet, you aren’t making any sense.”

With unsteady hands, the red and white mech returned to his packing. “An old fool’s dreams.”

“I hardly think you qualify as old, Ratchet.” Prowl crossed the room so that he could lay an hand on the other mech’s shoulder. “Please, tell me what’s really wrong?”

Ratchet reached up and gripped the hand on his shoulder so tightly it was almost painful. “Please, Prowl. Don’t make me do this. Just let me leave with my spark intact.”

He was alternately relieved and panicked at the medic’s words. It was confirmation of how Ratchet felt about him, but now he didn’t know what to do with that information. Ratchet was leaving. “What can I say to make you stay?”

“Primus, Prowl. I can’t stay.” Ratchet didn’t release his grip on Prowl’s hand. “I’m so in love with you that it hurts. And if I stay, I’m going to end up dragging you into something we’ll both regret.”

“How can we regret it if it’s something we both want?” The medic’s head jerked back up in surprise at the tactician’s words. “I’ve been in love with you for vorns.”

The words were surprisingly easy to say. They didn’t even seem illogical, as most emotional responses did since his upgrades.

“I’m almost four times your age, Prowl. You should be with someone younger.”

“But I do not want someone younger. I want you.” Prowl moved his free hand to Ratchet’s face, cupping the cheek plating and preventing the other mech from moving away. “Since my upgrades, you have been my only real friend. You have been the only mech who accepted who I was without question. My brothers still loved and supported me, but it isn’t the same. You treat me with care and compassion—and like I am worthy of such things.

“Shouldn’t that matter far more than our respective ages in determining any relationship we might have?”

“Only you could make it sound so logical,” Ratchet replied, nuzzling Prowl’s palm. “I’d only ever dreamed that you could love someone like me. Just hoping for it seemed like setting myself up for a fall; I was always so sure you would want someone your own age. My generation isn’t exactly made up of the most attractive model types.”

“You sell yourself short. Your model type has good lines that speak of power and strength and that _is_ attractive.” Slowly, giving the medic plenty of time to protest, the tactician leaned forward and pressed his lip components to the other mechs. It was a soft kiss, a mere conveyance of emotion and nothing more, but Ratchet returned it without hesitation. When they broke apart, he spoke again. “My feelings for you are not based on lust, however. Please, tell me you’ll stay.”

“I can’t stop the transfer,” the older mech said softly, looking away from him. “It’s already been finalized.”

“Then tell me where you are going and I will come with you.” The younger mech was surprised to feel panic flit through his spark; he couldn’t lose Ratchet in the same moment that he had learned the truth of their feelings. “Any unit would be happy to have another tactician.”

“Now you’re not being logical,” Ratchet chastised gently. He pulled the tactician into a hug and Prowl felt so comfortable in the embrace that he knew he could be content to be there forever. “Prime needs you here. I can promise that I’ll call when I can and that I will come back to you as soon as I can apply for a transfer again.”

“That will have to be good enough, then,” Prowl said sadly.

“It will be. And it’ll be over before you know it.” Ratchet turned them gently away from the storage crate he had been packing and started moving toward the door. “Now, come on. The transport doesn’t leave until second moonrise and I want to spend some time with you before I go.”

Prowl kept his arm around the other mech, unwilling to let Ratchet go so easily, but content in knowing—finally—that he was more than just a professional relationship to the mech he loved.  



End file.
